


What do you Want if you Don't Want Gold

by LucyBrown45



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Muggle, M/M, Mad Men Crossover (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 10:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10569150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: Percival Graves has worked in advertising for a long time. After a spell spent at the agency's London branch, his life in New York becomes more complicated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is not everything I wanted it to be, so maybe one day I'll return to it. 
> 
> Despite this, I hope it is fun.

Percival Graves has spent a year in Berkeley Square surrounded by pretentious bastards who smoke _Silk Cut_. He’s a _Lucky Strike_ man. He wrote the goddamn tagline and these twats have been trying to foist the tobacco equivalent of _Donovan_ onto him for twelve goddamn, long months. It’s been hell. 

He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and looks up from under the brim of his hat. The mid-morning light glints off the high rise, sunshine corner peeking. His eyelashes shadow across his vision in the pale light. A woman in a pink pillbox hat rushes past him, rummaging frustrated in her purse. 

Through the glass revolving door, a slim man in a weak tie with a grin ticker-taped between thin lips eagerly ushers in a cohort of solemn looking double-breasted suits. Over their heads, Graves spots Roger. He is father at the train station. Smoking carefully, watching Percival with smirking patience. 

Roger’s neat little tie-pin shines dimly in the yellow light of the office lobby. Graves steps on his cigarette and walks towards him taking his hat off as he goes. Roger slides his hand out of his pocket and claps him on the back of his shoulder. Speaking around his Lucky Strike, “The wanderer returns.” He doesn’t have manners for Percival. There’s no need. “Come on. There’s a drink upstairs with your name on it.”

They step into the crowded elevator. “It’s ten in the morning.”

Roger taps a young man on the shoulder. He looks up at him and Roger pats his own chest with his fingers in a Boy Scout formation. The man scrabbles a battered gold cigarette case from his breast pocket and holds it out to him. Roger extinguishes his on the ribbed plain of it and nods. The man is left with Roger’s filter on his case in his cupped hands. 

“Your generation doesn’t know how to drink.” He pushes Percival by the centre of his back towards the doors as they open at their floor. 

\---

“What are you doing?” Percival has had the worst pitch meeting of his life and has come into the break room hoping for some peace and quiet. Newt is sat at a table in his outdated blue wool coat. He’s got a pencil behind his ear and one between his teeth and is frantically trying to hide his sketches from Percival by shoving them into his large pockets. 

“Nothing. Noth-“ Percival sits down heavily next to him and snatches Newt’s paper pad from him. 

He’s drawn some kind of creature with big eyes. It’s holding a _Coke_ bottle, long fur tangled wildly and in a speech bubble above its head Newt has printed, “Revolutions are always verbose”.

Percival raises an eyebrow at him. Fucking junior creatives. Somebody has inexplicably put Newton Scamander on the _Rolex_ campaign and here he is doodling fucking Communist cartoons. 

He doesn’t say any of that. He says instead, “You’re in copy. Does Bullmore know you can draw like this?”

Newt frowns at him. Uncertain. Takes the pencil out of his mouth. “No. I don’t think so. I never put any art in my portfolio.”

“Your portfolio doesn’t have any art?”

“No, sir.”

“None?” Graves is incredulous. It’s ridiculous that Newt was either hired through nepotism or has a stack of copy so outlandish that somebody was brave enough to take a chance on him.

“Go get it.” Graves sits back in his chair and makes a shooing motion with one hand. “Go on. Go get it. I want to look.”

Advertising. Jesus, advertising in Britain. It’s a mess.

Newt scuttles back through the door and hefts a battered brown leather suitcase onto the table. Graves stares at him. After a beat, Newt looks down and fumbles at the latches. The heavy lid swings open. From where he’s sat Graves can’t see inside. He stands up, puts his hands on the table and leans forward.

“For Chissakes.” He hangs his head and looks up at Newt, brow wrinkled in disbelief. “This is your portfolio?”

The suitcase is a lot deeper than it looks on the outside. Somehow Newt has constructed an elaborate street scene from folded paper. Newt’s right, there is no art. It’s all origami in cheap typewriter paper. Graves gingerly pinches a sliver of leaning drainpipe and pulls. Every rooftop, every window, pavement tile unfurls a fortune-cookie strip printed with heavy-handed taglines and commercial poetry. 

He can’t deny that it is a nifty idea, but it sure is shambolic. “Saturday ceiling. You’re looking forward to it.” Percival’s nose crinkles in bemusement. “None of these make contextual sense, Scamander.”

“That’s okay. It’s in my head. All the work I do comes from the suitcase.” 

Graves is not convinced. Currently, the _Rolex_ ad hasn’t got much further than politely asking consumers to purchase it for Christmas.

It turns out that Newt has spent a significant part of his career working for _British Rail_. Not doing a lot of work. He’s responsible for the peeling posters spotted in waiting rooms urging commuters to go to Bognor Regis for a two weeks paid holiday where it will no doubt rain. A child will drop ice-cream and cry all day. Newt took credit for the whistling copy, not the laboriously kitsch landscapes.

Percival finds this out after accidently getting drunk with Newt after the _Rolex_ pitch. They hadn’t liked the power blonde thing he had been going for. Not even with Queenie, flown in special, taking minutes. 

Bullmore’s got this thing about research. If they can get the consumer to tell them about what time of the day they wash, how often they fuck, whether they eat their eggs boiled, they can get them to buy, buy, buy. Graves had to spend an excruciating morning listening to an idiot in a too small suit whittle on about the sleep patterns of _Rolex_ ’s ideal customer. 

He had wanted to tell him about the time he spent in a crisis meeting about the photos that had emerged of Fidel Castro wearing a _Rolex_. He didn’t. It doesn’t fit the consumer profile. The consumer researcher had been droning on about Piccard and Cousteau. The accompanying ad from five years ago is dull as ditch water and Graves knew his Sheila Scott idea was bona fide. Women are always in. Britain thinks it’s so hip, but what it really needs is some Hollywood _Bye Bye Birdie_ charm. 

Queenie, as Graves had placed her, strategically at the edge of the panel’s peripheral vision. Subconsciously embodying the woman as consumer and consumed. The men from _Rolex_ were not turned on. Bowler hats, stiff upper lips. 

Graves had felt obligated to ask Newt if he wanted to come to the New York offices after Newt had been gracious enough to not mention the fact that Percival had drunkenly plucked cigarettes from his inside pocket, put his hand on Newt’s knee. He’d felt silly, stood close to Newt in the break room. Unsure what to say. “Madison Avenue has a bigger art department.”

Newt had nodded solemnly and grinned foolishly at the floor before pinching Percival’s collar corner. Blue eyes a dark, smart _Klein_ blue. “I’ll come look at New York. Keep an eye on your eek.”

\---

“We’ve got a new production artist.”

Graves raises an eyebrow at Roger. He’s not sure he cares.

Roger nods his head in a sharp, knowing bob. “You’ll see.”

Percival reluctantly follows Roger on a welcome home tour of the building and is beginning to trudge when they get the back printing rooms. He's beginning to suspect foul-play. Roger doesn’t care what someone has between their legs, so long as they’re pretty and they’re up for a fuck. He swings open the door and keeps his hand on the handle, ushering Percival in ahead of himself. “Here we are.”

A pale young man sat at a drawing board hesitantly gets to his feet at their arrival.

"Introduce yourself, Credence."

The young man wrings his hands together. Percival puts his hands in his pockets.

Production artists do the work that Percival can’t and in the case of Newt, apparently, won’t. When Percival sketches a shaded dressmaker’s dummy holding a cuboid, it is boys like Credence’s job to turn it into art. When Percival’s tagline gets printed, it becomes advertising. 

As they leave, Roger with his arm over Percival’s shoulders says to him, “Be nice to him, won’t you? He’s not found it easy to fit in.”

Percival shrugs out of Roger’s clasp under the pretence of smoothing his scarf. “We’re an ad agency.” 

Roger winks at him and walking backwards holds his arms out. “Doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.” 

Letting Roger stride away, Percival looks back through the open door at Credence sat staring at the drawing board. His wrists peek out from the cuffs of his shirt and there’s chartreuse ink spattered along the buttons at his forearm. It makes Percival think of the lining of Newt’s coat. Newt, who he hasn’t seen since they landed in New York. 

Percival looks around sharply. He left the airport very quickly. He does not know where Newt is staying and he does not know if Newt managed to make his way to the building and get settled into his American art sabbatical. He does not want to know and imagining a head of red hair out the corner of his eye he heads off to take the stairs to his office. 

\---

Tina hates Credence. He knows this like he knows she stole his _Windsor and Newton_ no.8. She took it and now she wears it behind her ear even though she sits at a typewriter all day. The girls all eat their sandwiches at their desks so they can still answer the phones, but Credence likes to sit at the copywriters’ meeting table in the centre of the floor. A smooth burl wood _Baughmann_ island between beige _Bakelite_ and the bright blouses of the girls and their snap-chatter. He watches them take messages and clack away at their keys as the account managers rattle off directions to them. He watches Tina get mustard on her upper lip and pull his paintbrush between her forefinger and thumb forward and then back again, itching the side-edge nape of her neck. 

Credence doesn’t hate Tina. He just wants his paintbrush back. It spreads the _Cryla_ perfectly. He needs it for his _Kodak_ project. 

Jacob from media sits down next to him and opens a tin lunchbox. “She still got your pencil, huh?” He unscrews the cap of a tartan flask and pours a cup-full of soup. He pushes it towards Credence, orange slips over the lip and he sucks his thumb knuckle quick-clean. 

Credence absent-mindedly takes a sip. This is routine now. Jacob won’t let him refuse. He hums his assent to a mouthful of sweet tomato _Heinz_. Jacob bought them their current television slots at a very reasonable rate. Media planners have been known to receive hefty bonuses, jewellery, holidays from happy, happy clients. Jacob was gifted all the canned food he could ever hope for. 

“You could ask her to give it back.”

Credence puts the flask cup down and flicks at the handle. He shrugs. “She doesn’t forgive me for the lipstick campaign.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Jacob bites into his pickles and rye bread. “You’re just the paint kid.” He grins at Credence, hamster cheeks innocent. 

Credence false glares at him. “Still. I could have said something.”

“Roger would never have listened. He likes his women silent.”

Tina’s voice startles them both. She’s hissing at Mr Campbell. He is a newbie account planner who wants to be account manager fast. He was assigned Tina when he arrived and they have had the pleasure of hating each other’s company ever since. Tina is waving the phone at him and telling him she won’t take any more messages from downtown girls. Campbell looks close to pulling the curl cord around her throat. 

“See.” Jacob nods at her and whispers to Credence, “She can’t play quiet receptionist. Roger doesn’t trust her to play quiet copy girl.”

“She shouldn’t have to be quiet. Her tagline was good. They should have used it.” He spots a penny under the table and bends awkwardly to pick it up. He rubs his thumb over the burnish. “And Campbell’s a dink.”

Jacob snorts breadcrumbs over the table and Credence’s mouth twitches a smile. 

After lunch, Credence returns to the art room and find a man sat in his seat.  
The man spots him and leaps up. He brushes his hands down the front of his trousers, pushing invisible dust away. He holds a hand out, awkward. “Hello. I’m Newt.” He coughs. “Newton Scamander. Sorry. Parents, you know.” He clears his throat of a small laugh. 

Credence shakes his hand. “Hello.”

Newt, Credence learns, is very British. The end of the week comes and he has a collection of half drunk, cold cups of tea around his drawing board. He’s told Credence all about going to somewhere called Clacton for fish and chips. And he has bemoaned the lack of _Silk Cut_ at least three times. 

Friday finds Graves remembering that he is the agency’s Art Director and can no longer put off heading down to where he knows Newt is now working. He briskly crosses the floor and puts a napkin down on Credence’s drawing board. 

Mr Graves is leaning down over him. His hand spread wide over a tatty napkin, inked with bullet points, smudging the charcoal of a sketch Credence had been working on for Seraphina. Mr Graves is warm and smells like lavender. Credence keeps his eyes on Mr Graves’s hand as he begins to speak. “This.” He speaks softly, his hard Brooklyn accent masked. “This is the concept work for the _Kodak_ ad.”

“Mr Graves, you’ve already given me the concept work for _Kodak_. Sir.”

“It’s changed now.” Percival stands up straight. Watches Credence’s pale, slim hands tuck his hair behind both ears. He can hear Newt’s pencil scratching at the paper and turns to him, hands on his hips. They stare at each other. 

Percival nods. He leaves. He steps back into the room, hand on the doorframe. He hesitates and looks between Newt and Credence. Newt is wearing a yellow silk tie that Percival remembers from London. His cufflinks are garish gold. The lapels of Credence’s black woollen blazer are fraying at the corner points. Percival nods. He leaves. 

\---

Newt has the no.8 now. Credence squints at him splashing the wrong shade of red over a _Coke_ sketch-up using his paintbrush. Credence likes Newt, but is suspicious of his arrival. His interactions with Mr Graves are bordering on the bizarre. And most recently. He has been dating Tina. Credence is suspicious of dating. It only leads to trouble. Credence swore to his Ma that he wouldn’t get mixed up in such things when he got this job. 

Mr Graves makes this difficult though. It’s scary. Credence has crosses himself every time thoughts of Mr Graves come to him. This happens a lot more often since Mr Graves bought him a coat. It is a beautiful, double-breasted _Ulster_. Charcoal black with a thick, mink collar. 

He finds it difficult to know what to think about the coat. It had been waiting for him, draped over the back of his chair one Monday morning. The price ticket was still attached to the hook at the neck, but torn in half, no indication of money spent, but Mr Graves’s messy pencil handwriting, _It is February_

He has a meeting today with Mr Graves about how Newt is progressing. Credence is not Newt’s boss. He does not provide Newt with briefs or concepts. But for some reason, Mr Graves finds it hard to talk to Newt and so Credence has become the accidental supervisor of their workroom. Credence supposes it’s only fair, in any case, as he was there first. 

“Credence.” Mr Graves is perched on the edge of his desk. Smoking a _Lucky Strike_. He urges Credence into the room, smoke cat-tailing the air. On top on the tan leather blotter is an A3 mock up. A woman’s half-closed eyes watch Credence, her cheeks and lips a pale pink. He assumes this is Newt’s work as he has incorrectly used watercolours for the job and the ink of the tagline drowns. Mr Graves jabs his middle finger, cigarette ash raining, down on the poor woman. “This is not good.” He then runs his finger under the straining text. “But this is.”

He takes a drag. Breathes smoke out through his nose and nods quickly. “Who wrote the copy?”

Credence holds his breather. Looks to Mr Graves’s face to make sure he’s not being fooled. When Credence doesn’t answer straight away Percival looks up at him. Cheeks still hollowed around his cigarette. “Well?”

Credence looks down at the floor. Whispers, “Tina. Sir.”

Mr Graves extinguishes his cigarette in a glass ashtray and rolls up his sleeves. He tears the bottom third of the paper off, taking the tagline away from the _Biba_ Ophelia. He hands it out to Credence. “Go on then. Go find her. Get conceptualising.” 

Credence takes it from him and holds it in both hands like a banner token. He knows Tina’s smart and she writes well, but he’s not sure she knows how to _do_ advertising. He can paint, sure, but he’s certain he doesn’t know how to do advertising. Mr Graves moves to stand in front of him. He puts his hands on Credence’s shoulders.

He’s taller than Mr Graves and doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want Mr Graves to think he can’t follow orders. He’s always so warm. Today, Credence can smell the coffee Queenie must have brought him earlier. “Go on. You’ll be fine.” He pats his large hands down twice, heavy. His thumbs knocking Credence’s collarbones. 

\---

Queenie’s heels clatter across the office floor. “Look! Gosh, look!” She has a folded copy of _Cosmopolitan_ high in the air and when she reaches the copywriters’ meeting table she slams it down and spreads it wide. Seraphina cautiously joins her and the other girls on the floor follow. Queenie links elbows with Seraphina and points down at the magazine. “Tina did that.” 

Joyce, on her other side, moves in close. “What did she do, Queenie?”

“The ad!” Queenie squeezes Seraphina’s arm and bunny hops once. “She wrote the ad!” She releases Seraphina and rummages through her handbag, handing the girls their timesheets for the week. “I’ve scheduled us all to go buy these Tina approved pantyhose this lunchtime. Don’t you dare think of not coming.” 

Joyce picks the magazine up. She reads slowly, “Who could tell unless we told first?” She begins to grin, matching the text to the image of a woman’s smooth, shimmering legs. “Hey, Queenie. Your Tina’s pretty smart.”

\---

Under the influence of Jacob, Newt has been reading Marshall McLuhan lately. It makes Credence nervous. It makes him think about the green plastic comb with a black leather sheaf sitting on his dresser at home. The tiny, silver tie-pin pressed into the corners of his new white cotton shirt. A copy of _Meditations in an Emergency_ he keeps on a shelf with his sketchbooks. A Josephine Baker record with a cinema ticket stub stashed inside the cover. Things he did not know existed before advertising. Things he did not he wanted before Mr Graves gifted them upon him.

After Tina’s ad had been published, Mr Graves had stopped by the deserted art room. Had held his face in his soft hands and said, “You did well.” 

When the devil tempts, he does so artfully and demands payment in the end. 

\---

Credence had been brought into the office to explain himself.

He timidly walks into the room. Hands behind his back, head to the floor. He goes to look up at Roger sat behind Percival's desk, but a nervous twitch has his head raising at an angle. He takes an odd step away from his bosses towards the far wall. His hands fall to his side as he stands before the painting. Staring. “You’ve got a Rothko.”

Roger looks at Percival and his eyes roll back with his neck. “Yes. I’m very lucky.”

Credence turns to look over his shoulder at him. It’s not Roger’s office. But Roger’s Rothko has been displayed here. He seems to make a hard decision and turns back to the painting. He closes his eyes, breathes in loudly and deeply through his nose.

Credence is in trouble because he has taken Percival’s wholesome Carousel concept for _Kodak_ and inked instead a horror straight outta Caravaggio. Gruesome little peasant children in a ring-a-rosie. The one in the foreground with the face of an ageing man, the one at the centre, a baby escaping swaddling clothes. In stark white stencilling, he’s printed, “All I want is boundless love.” It’s flat, _Margritte_ flat. And damn ugly. The _Kodak_ logo hovers in the bottom right corner. 

“Mr Barebone.” Roger picks up Credence’s ad with one hand and smacks the back of the other against it. Graves looks at Roger out of the corner of his eyes. The meeting has been derailed from him by a nineteen-year-old print kid. He looks at the base of his _Arco_ lamp and huffs a small laugh before shaking his head and walking over to Credence. 

He leans an acute angle into the space at Credence’s side and whispers, “It cost him seven thousand dollars.”

Credence doesn’t say anything. Just carries on looking at the painting. They stay like that. For a while, Roger endures, caterpillar fingers. Then loudly sighs and stands next to Credence with his hands on his hips. “It’s not special. It’s modern art. It’s going to double in value.”

Outside, Campbell snaps at Queenie blocking Mr Graves’s door. He doesn’t enter the office. The sun is about to set. Its winter shimmer pastel-chalking the red of the Rothko. Percival passes Credence a paintbrush.


End file.
